I swagger toward him as slowly as humanly possible, tearing the helmet off my head and brushing past him as I continue to the locker room. He tugs at the back of my jersey and pulls me back to him. Everyone else drifts through the tunnel and into the lockers, and he motions for them to continue as he plasters me against the tunnel wall, snarling.

“Are you losing my game on purpose, son?”

Any other guy would take what Daria so generously offered and show up to the game the next half and kick ass. Not me. I don’t care what Daria wants, and I don’t care that she won’t be there on Monday to see the pages of her journal plastered on every locker and square inch of the school. She doesn’t deserve this shit.

“Sir, I lost focus. For that, I apologize.” I tell him whatever he needs to hear to keep me on the field.

“Because of the pretty blonde?” he spits out.

“Because of an asshole blond guy,” I correct, jerking my chin toward Gus, who is making his way to ASH’s locker room. “Fucker has been shoving Josh’s pads into his throat. Dude still tapes quarters to his knuckles like it’s the fucking nineties.” I let out a bitter cough of laughter.

“Language!” he yells. “And I don’t care what you feel toward Bauer. If you let him get to you, you will never get drafted. You will never make it big. You will never be NFL ready. Just another poor boy with a lot of potential and no brains who is throwing a game because someone said something about his girlfriend. You think she’s gonna stick around after the jock glory wears off? When y’all go to college? You think she’s worth your future? Your team’s future? My future?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.

I shake my head, shouldering past him. He chases me down the tunnel, his voice carrying the echo of the cave-like place.

“Answer me, son!”

I storm to the locker room. I’m done explaining myself. Especially to the man who told me to stay away from my girlfriend so that Prichard could abuse her.

Ex-girlfriend. Fuck.

Lowering myself to a bench and releasing my breath, I watch as Coach Higgins enters the room and slams his fist into a locker, making a huge dent. When he withdraws his hand, his knuckles are bruised and bloody.

“Every single one of you rowdy idiots is like my own kid. Someone needs to step forward and tell me what happened to your captain, or I’m benching the hell out of him and making sure every single phone call I get from colleges about any of y’all will be met with the same response: he is not good enough. He is not ready. Don’t give him the scholarship. In other words, if you don’t rat out Penn and tell me what his problem is, you go down with him, understood?”

“Yes, sir!” everyone answers in unison. I chew on my mouthguard and stare at the floor. Maybe they know. Maybe they’ll rat me out, and that’ll be the end of my career. All I know is that I’ve never been more sure of anything my entire life as I am sure of this—I’m not bringing Daria down, with or without her blessing.

“So,” Higgins screams, “what happened to Penn Scully?”

“Nothing, sir!”

“What happened?” he screams.

“Nothing, sir!” they all bark at the same time. I should feel proud. Touched. Something. Anything. I don’t. I fucking don’t. It’s too late.

“I will ruin your goddamn football careers, boys!” He punches the lockers again. And again. And again.

“Penn Scully is our captain, sir.”

For the first time in weeks, I smile.

I have Daria’s back.

And my team’s got mine.

Loving you is like

Listening to a song

For the first time

And somehow knowing all the lyrics

The game ends with 42-17 after much hard work from me trying to lose. Our scrawny quarterback ended up having an arm like Brett Favre, and the defense played their hearts out and forced fumbles that they recovered. Las Juntas Bulldogs win, anyway. Kannon gets the ball, but we both know who deserves it.

I leave before the after-game prayer. Stalking toward the locker room, I take a quick shower, throw my duffel bag over my shoulder, and burst into All Saints’ unlocked showers. Most of the players are inside, lathered in soap, sporting bruises on their foreheads and chests. Gus is sitting on a bench, a towel wrapped around his waist, holding his head in his hands. He is still dry as a bone.

Kicking his shin with my toes, I snap my fingers before him. He looks up. He looks like death. His eyes bloodshot, his cheeks sunken. People are whining about my being there as though I came in with a ruler to compare our dicks. I ignore the protests and requests to see myself the hell out.

“Your girlfriend’s dead.” He smirks darkly.

“Meet me at the pit tonight, Bauer. And this time, you’re not in charge of the fucking paperwork. You’re fighting. With me.”

Daria asked that no one know she was leaving. She preferred it that way, not trusting Gus with the information. But I don’t put it past my sister to tell him, and I have to make sure he doesn’t get to Daria tonight.

“Give me one good reason to do anything you ask, you fucking lowlife. I have every right to—”

I punch him in the face, knocking him back. He falls backward, and Colin—I’m not done with you, either, Colin—manages to catch him before his head hits the floor.